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Sunday, January 22, 2012

The Journey

Oleg travels by train to Minsk,Carrying his hands in a lady's hat box,Wedged between his arms, Riding like an overfed pet cat upon his lap.In his luggage, carefully wrapped, Are beautiful soap replicas of his feet;The artisan who created them now languishing,A prisoner of the White Army.Look at me, thinks Oleg...A man in extremity!He thinks of his young manhood in Odessa,Where vendors called out to him,With fez-wearing monkeys perched on their brutish shoulders.Then, his middle years,Married to a woman from a village at the foot of the Urals;She was mute,But bore him a son who became an opera singer.

Oleg's hair, what there is of it, is gray.Where is all the color, the passion, of his earlier life?As the train bumps along, he fixes his mind on his destination...In Minsk, at the Workers' Hall,He will unpack his hands, proudly,And use them to embrace LeninAnd to offer himself to the great leader.Oleg will throw himself into the collective fire,The forge,Of the workers' noble cause!

His little feet, made of soap,Delicate as a swan's, will melt.No matter!Oleg is exalted just to thinkThat his bones will form the baseOf a statueOf a workerIn the very spot where the czar's police once came,And closed down the opera house...The entire company, even the ballerinas,Sent away to Siberia!

Nearing the station, Oleg prays to Lenin,Take these hands,These feet...Tuck a bottle of the "little water" under my armAnd pack me off to my grave;You will find me there,In a thousand years from now,Singing your praisesAnd smiling._____

24 comments:

Quite the cautionary tale for zealots, yet so gorgeously written, with so many little brushlike flourishes that bare poor Oleg to his simple soul, that one hasn't the heart to do anything but feel sorry for him and gape gawkishly at how insanely charming the language is. (Aren't I bald enough yet? Must I get a skull wax, or what?!?)Love the way the opera singer motif ties the sadness and irony down so lightly and perfectly. Beautiful, and reminds me of how balalaikas make me feel.

you are full of wit. there is danger in commiting ourselves to that which we do not truly understand...only think we do...we create gods to support our own beliefs...they are really only bastard children of our own brokeness...

Sounds like a South Carolina Republican faithful to me, too long oppressed by the thought of a black man in the White House. I would have pegged his brain in that hatbox, but I guess it got thrown behind on the rails of the iron horsie. - Brendan

In these days, I guess it is difficult to read poems about Lenin or Soviets without irony.But I'll exercise my rights as a reader and omit the irony.So cheers! Comrade, for a lovely read.loved it.Somewhere the Kremlin clock is chiming still.

Oleg has evolved from primal sludge, and suffered loss of so much once coveted. Zeal is understandably attractive; and martyrdom's a trifle in times of depth... particularly if one cannot swim. And how can one, removed of hands?

I heart this piece, from the strangely lush images (replica foot carvings and offspring who become opera singers) to the small space of poor oleg. You truly captured the longing of mother russia. This is a little Zhivago, a lotta Fireblossom. Viva la

My new book !

Modesty spoken here.

kindred spirits

"I have been blessed with these two gorgeousWings and I refuse to load my heart with weights."

--Marina Tsvetaeva

“I'd rather sing one wild song and burst my heart with it, than live a thousand years watching my digestion and being afraid of the wet.” ― Jack London, The Turtles of Tasman

"The only calibration that counts is how much heart people invest, how much they ignore their fears of being hurt or caught out or humiliated. And the only thing people regret is that they didn't live boldly enough, that they didn't invest enough heart, didn't love enough. Nothing else really counts at all." — Ted Hughes

Poetry made from...

...trinkets, mojo, and double mocha latte!

Welcome to the Word Garden

The Word Garden consists of original poems written by me, Shay a.k.a. Fireblossom. Please stop a while and enjoy them. But don't pick the blooms that you find here, they must not be planted elsewhere without permission of the author.